The Female Problem - A Study in Hot Pink
by Force of the Phoenix
Summary: Deleted for probs with site. What if John Watson had been Johnnye Watson? Would Sherlock have been different with her? Female John, same story. Obvious Johnlock. Shows meeting and solving my version of 'A Study in Pink'. R/R please. Rated T for death, swearing and innuendos. May become M later on.
1. Chapter 1

_**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert**: I own nothing and make nothing. I just have fun._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink.**

_Nightmares, realisation, and Elle the Therapist._

The burning sun was beating down onto her, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and the back of her neck that trickled down her skin to follow the arched crevice of her spine running down her back. The air was harsh and dry, burning her lungs and making her golden brown eyes water in surrender as her armour began to stick to her flesh as she became more and more over-heated.

Then she was running. Running and running and running. Tripping through the undergrowth, only to be hauled back up by her arm to her feet and being barked an order of "You must keep running, J. You have to. I won't lose you now."

And then they were running together. Just her and her Duke hand in hand running away from the pitter-patter of bullets and the crashing of bombs not far behind us. Her legs wanted to spasm and the muscle to cramp, her lungs were turning to ash and her heart was about to flat-line in a strike from over-working.

_Boom._

And then they were on the ground, Duke's huge body covering her's as blood seemed to be pouring out from overhead. It took her a while to realise that Duke was unhearing, to roll him off of her and onto his back and to gasp as she saw what had happened.

Duke's flesh had been corroded by the bomb, like the incendiary had eaten at him like acid to leave him to bleed to death. Staring into his eyes, J yelled to Duke to stay with her, to not fall asleep on her and to keep fighting. He raised a hand to cup her face, his thumb running over the tears leaking over her eyes to fall down her golden tanned face. Searching her eyes, Duke knew that he wasn't going to make it, and wanted to give his J one last goodbye.

Through the blood pooling in his mouth, he half choked from the overwhelming taste of blood battering his tongue as he began to speak. "J, I...'m so-orry. Don't cry for me sweetheart." His thick, rough thumb wiped carefully at her tears as he spluttered, helpless to the worsening of his speech as more and more blood filled his mouth. "Could... ne-ver st-st-stand... to see you cry." J wanted to speak, but when she opened her mouth all that came out was a choked sob, her hands clutching at the hand caressing her cheek. Turning his head, Duke spat out the blood, resisting the intense urge to follow the pull that told him to relax, to let go and to die quickly so as to reduce the suffering of the girl he loved most in the world, to then pull his loving J down to listen to his whisper "I'll always love you more than you know. Always. I want you to live, J. Really live. Go find yourself a nice guy and settle down with him. And J... I wanna be buried next to Dad. Can you do that?"

When his J nodded her head and clutched his hand that cupped her blood smeared cheek, Duke could finally relax and let go. And then, with bullet tears streaming down her face, J watched as her beloved Duke let go of his last breath, his eyes came to stare glazed at the open sky above them and the hand that had cupped her cheek so reverently went limp.

"No, no, no! No, stay with me, Duke! Stay with me! Please! I can't lose you" She ran her hands over him, winding in his salt and pepper hair, shaking his half eaten armoured jacket and cupping his bloody cheeks as bombs still ate at the earth behind them and bullet still ricocheted around them. But J didn't pay attention to that, couldn't function her brain to do anything other than cry for her brave leader. Her brother. One who she'd loved the most in her whole life, the one that'd been a parent to her and defended her against Terri's bullying. He was the eldest of them, the leader... her leader. She was lost without him. An incredible hollowness filled her, she was ice, she wasn't alive anymore. And then she felt a searing pain in her shoulder, a fire eating away at her flesh. Her vision fuzzed, and her sense of direction went completely. Noises crashed and banged, voices called to her, but she knew nothing of that.

She tried to stay awake, but eventually she blacked out.

_Oh, Duke. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

* * *

Dr Capt Johnnye C. P. Watson awoke suddenly from her nightmare-plagued sleep, her breathes coming in fast and heavy while tearful eyes tried to take in the danger, only to register in her sleep-fogged brain that there was no danger. That she wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, and that she was perfectly safe, tucked up in some cheap, rented flat bed with lumps all over and a horrid smell of dead something that seemed to be originating from inside the very mattress. And, she remembered with a pain in her chest, Duke was dead. Buried in the ground alongside their dad. All the while tears still streamed freely down her face, Johnnye blinked them back venomously, trying to prove to herself that she wasn't just crying, that it was just the pillow making her eyes have an allergic reaction to whatever its been cleaned with.

The Army Doctor got up and turned on her bedside light, making her hiss in pain as her eyes had to furiously acclimatise themselves to the blinding, off-colour light that the lamp produced. Her cotton pyjama top had ridden up to parade her ribs, and her matching short-shorts turned themselves huffily to face the wall, as if ashamed of her for thinking that she was still in the war zone.

Now, Johnnye was a nice, plain girl by all accounts, albeit rather too odd for most people's tastes. In fact, Johnnye seemed to enjoy making people freak about her looks and what she does. You see, Johnnye likes to go against the grain, to go against the rule of society and propriety. Since birth she has been the odd girl, an outsider, the rebel of the society, the loner that has never really fitted in wherever she went. Growing up, she was an extreme tomboy – she climbed trees, hung out with her father and learnt about cars with her dad and her eldest brother Chase. However, she was also the nerdy one – she had braces, had to wear glasses, had horrible acne and always succeeded at being the top of every class she took, even in sports, especially running. Her other brother, the second eldest, for she was the youngest, teased her unmercifully during those years for her looks, making their relationship turbulent and very strained.

So, in a way, one might describe her as paradoxical. She adores to be different and to shock people by defying convention the restrictions of society, but she's also deeply insecure and has a real wish help and make friends.

In her teen years, she was taken in by the police for various offenses, mostly because she was a very talented hacker. And why did she do that, you may ask? Well, dear reader. She does this for the very simple reason that she is an adrenaline junkie. She has to get her fix of excitement, otherwise she resorts to downright stupid ways of getting into trouble.

If you asked any who knew her what they remembered about her most, it would be one of two things.

Her eyes are a golden chocolate, a dark honey that's so close to being a burning amber one can't really tell which colour it is when staring into her large, almond shaped eyes.

Or it would be her smile. Warm and charming, her smile is wonky and lovable; endearing all to her with its lazy and crooked half-smile magnetism that pours an inhuman twinkle of magic into her eyes, two dimples parading themselves on her left side, the side holding up her smile, and adding to the childlike air and charm she possesses.

You see, Johnnye is by no accounts unpleasant to look at. She can be said to be pretty, but she's different. And most people dislike different.

* * *

"How's your blog going, Johnnye?"

"Yeah, good. Very good, thanks." Johnnye had been hardly paying her therapist any attention, feeling more like a small girl with braces and glasses and acne once more, rather than the seasoned soldier that she is. All she does is hope that her therapist doesn't notice the sheepish way she said the lie and the way she isn't willing to make any eye contact with her right now, more willing to gaze dreamily out of the window and think about the war, her family, anything other than how this woman, untrained as she is in military inspection, is seemingly able to reduce Johnnye back down to the terrified little girl she was when her mother pissed off.

"You haven't written a word have you?"

Damn it! Johnnye had rather hoped that her therapist hadn't noticed. Gazing quickly for some way to have a comeback, she snapped back with more sting than she would've put in if calm "And you just wrote 'still has trust issues'."

Her therapist, Ella Thompson, looked incredulously at her for a moment, before her gaze moved to her note sheet just to make sure that Johnnye was right, that she really had just written that. Seeing that Johnnye had indeed just read her writing perfectly, upside down, she sighed and gazed understandingly at the poor soul sitting in her chair opposite her. "And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean? Johnnye, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you _will_ honestly help you."

Ella can't help but feel a horrible twinge in her gut for the poor slip of a girl who'd already suffered so much in her life. A deceased mother she can hardly remember; a heartbroken, beaten-down dad who couldn't get over the loss; multiple unresolved issues with Terri; not even mentioning the death of her eldest brother.

"Nothing happens to me. Nothing good, anyways."

The poor girl's voice is so low, so lost and without the normal spirit in it that Ella had to take her small, gentle hands into her own and say to her in the most mothering way that she can "Things will get better, Johnnye. I promise you, they will get better."

* * *

What do you think of my John? Tell me what you think so I can improve, just don't freak or anything. Thank you.

Phoenix


	2. Old friends and new possibilities

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert:** _If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink.**

_Old friends and new possibilities._

The thing that really ticked Johnnye off most was the way that strangers stared at her, she could feel them, staring at her. Giving her their pity. She didn't need it. She didn't want it. What use would it have for her? A woman who only got shot because she was trying to save the life of a mortally wounded soldier who couldn't be moved.

She felt like a circus clown, hobbling along by the use of her damned walking stick. She tried to take pleasure in the serenity and beauty of the park, but all that went through her mind was thoughts of the war zone, the machine gun fire, the bombs.

"Johnnye! Johnnye Watson!"

Stumbling around, she came face to face with a podgy man wearing thin, rectangular glasses and nostalgic smile. Frowning, she grasped desperately for the name of the man. That's if she knew him at all. He raises a hand to point to himself and say "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together."

Realisation made her brows disappear beneath her block fringe and her mouth to form an 'O' of surprise. Mike Stamford? The same Mike Stamford who'd once asked her if she had an eating problem when he'd seen how much she could eat and still stay the same slim shape? Apology clear in her voice, she said "Yes, sorry, yes. Mike, how're you?"

He waved his hands at his large stomach and said "Yeah, I know. I got fat." She didn't know how to recover from that. How was she continue from that? It struck her as ironic that she could recover from being shot at, seeing her friends die, and being violently shot in her shoulder, but can't carry on a decent convo anymore.

Mike carried on for her, saying with curiosity "I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?" It made her cringe a little inside, but by now and with her military experience she could restrict her facial expression. She hoped.

"I got shot." She said simply, trying to be casual as possible as she shrugged her shoulders and turned her gaze away from his, so that she didn't have to see the pity. She couldn't stand the pity.

###

A quarter of an hour later, Johnnye sipped at her tea before she said "Are you still at Barts? Or have you left the nest?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." They shared a smile and a light chuckle at Mike's humour. "Except for you'a course. You weren't bright, Johnnye." Johnnye raised an eyebrow so that it disappeared underneath her curtain of hair and a confused look in her beautiful eyes. "You were extraordinary." She laughed at Mike once again, suddenly wondering why she hadn't tried to make contact with any of her old school friends before now.

"What about you? Staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard that her pupils almost disappeared beneath her eyelids. "I can't afford London on an Army pension, Mike. And it's not like I can just go out and get a job with this leg." She tapped her crippled leg with her stick, sighing when she thought about the prospects a cripple like her has at getting a job in the medical profession.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Johnnye Watson I know."

Anger bubbled up inside her, her trembling left hand clenching at what Mike just said. Her mouth lashed out at him, moving so fast that she snapped the words before her brain could decide how horrid she was being. "Yeah, well I'm not the Johnnye Watson you knew." She sighed and unclenched her hand, only for it to be furiously clenched once more when she finds that it trembled once more. She tried to explain to him her situation by telling him softly "People change, Mike. War changes even the best of us- it strips us down and takes away life right before our eyes. And every second, every breath we take, every soldier knows it might very well be their last." She looked into his baby blue eyes and tried to put across her apology without having to exercise her voice any more than necessary.

"Couldn't Terri help?"

Again, the words cam out of her mouth before she had the time to censure what she was saying to her old friend "Yeah, right! I still have my principles, Mike."

"Pfft... I don't know... get a flatshare or something?"

"Oh, come on! Get real, Mike! Who in their right mind would wanna have me for a flatmate?" At Mike laughing while looking away, it struck Johnnye that he looked quite pensive. She smiled a little and asked him, half laughing "What's so funny?"

Mike still looked amused as he told her "You're the second person to say that to me today."

Curiosity had always been her downfall, it was so insatiable that she normally got in deep shit for following that little voice that told her to explore, to discover, to learn. She just hoped that this was not one of those times that she would end up regretting following her instincts and her curiosity.


	3. How do you meet a genius like Holmes?

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert**: _If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust_

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink.**

_How do you meet a genius like Holmes?_

Things certainly had changed in Barts since she went abroad, Johnnye thought to herself as she walked through a door that Mike so kindly held open for her.

The lab was full of old and new. Old microscopes and posters, new furnishings had changed the entire layout of the lab. On the long lab table there was a man with dark, shiny curls that fell into his eyes and alabaster skin that seemed ethereal in the lighting. He was staring at something on the table before him, clearly too involved in his work to bother to look up at Mike and her. The man was lean and looked sinewy, with long legs and discreetly muscled arms that grew out from broad shoulders and a large, firm chest. His face was strong and angular, with a long, straight nose and defined lips

Sherlock may not have looked up, but he listened intently at the conversation. The voice he heard say "It's certainly an upgrade from my Barts." He didn't bother to pay attention to what Mike said back to her. He knew it was a woman from her voice. He did hear her laughing at whatever Mike said to her after her comment. A beautiful, rich voice that was like a breath of spring air and a musical laugh that was soft like summer rain. So unlike other woman's shrill shrieks and their hyena-like laughs. The sounds gave his ears such pleasure.

That voice...

It was the kind of silken purr that the ear is compelled to follow up and down, as if every speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. It had an excitement that no doubt any who meet her failed to ever forget; a certain singing compulsion within its notes poured into a sumptuous potion of a tempting call of 'listen' and the express promise of excitement and fun. With its unaccustomed rhythm, its sing-song cadence and the faint soupçon of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the consonants – it was the sound of heartbreak; every syllable being caressed in a permanently musical tone, with a soulful hum full of aching, grieving beauty added to a sad dignity and a great sense of past sufferings bravely endured. It was the type of voice that men would kill for. No doubt hundreds of unsuspecting men had become powerless in their fall for this woman simply for her voice, the poor idiots would've had no idea that this voice would be their downfall.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Johnnye looked to the man who'd spoken in a deep, drawling baritone that was deeply alluring, with the syllables being ground out with great boredom, as if making each note was a strain on him. And then, he looked up. And she was staring into stunning silver eyes that stared back, right into her mind, right into her very psyche. Reading her as no other had ever before, as though Johnnye could feel him in there. Mike asked him why he hasn't used the landline, the man's voice enthrals her as she is once again wrapped in him, his voice dripping deliciously down her spine like hot oils and incense as he told Mike that he prefers to text. She vaguely heard Mike giving an excuse for why he can't lend the mysterious, dark man his phone.

"Er, here." Johnnye held out my own mobile, smiling, and continued sheepishly "You can, you know, use mine." She felt a stupid blush develop on her chest, to move up onto her neck and then parade its colour on her cheeks when the man stared at her, surprised, for what seemed like an age. "Oh, thank you." He said, still in the same curious yet surprised way that he'd been staring at her. Wanting to make her blush look innocent, she took off her coat and reveal her plaid shirt. She smiled at the man as he neared to take her phone, her breath faltered when his fingers brushed her palm.

Sherlock was sorry that he'd not looked up before, wishing he had so that he could've looked at her for longer. She had so much to look at, so much to explore and caverns of layers to her make up. He could tell that she was an invalided army doctor, that her therapist thought that her limp was psychosomatic; he knew that her therapist was unfortunately correct and he knew from her violent, blood red lipstick that painted her lips that she was rebelling and yearned for some adventure, just like him.

But when he took the few moments to really look at her, he knew he had been wrong. It wasn't just her voice that people fell for, it was all of her. For her beauty and for how she viewed herself.

Her hair was a thick mass of straight, rich chocolate that fell windswept and messy to her lower back; she must have given a lot of time to keep it so healthy and long, usually Army employment does nothing for one's state of hair health. Approximately 3.4 inches of it was dip-dyed a honey blonde, with the ends cut straight across perfectly level and her block fringe very nearly hiding her thick brows that are straighter than they are arched.

Her long, thin jaw and pointed chin made her full, well-formed lips look weird and disproportional on her face. A deep and reasonably long lip crease led the eye up from her eye- catching lips to her nose, which is straight and thin with the barest tip-tilt to it. Her ears higher than most, the same level as her eyebrows, her lobes were triangular, what Chinese texts call a 'chicken beak lobe'.

Widely spaced, almond shaped eyes, with a slight inset, stared at him from above smooth apple cheeks splattered with a spread of freckles. The oddest thing Sherlock saw, was her eyes. Their colour to be precise. Never had he seen a person with such a vivid colour and hue hers were. A beautiful, golden chocolate brown, they were almost a devastating amber. It was as if her eyes relished the game of making everyone she met feel the urge to stare at them, just to see if they really were the colour they played at being.

Moreover, not only was this woman beautiful, but she didn't seem to know that she was. The blush that crept onto her cheeks told him all he needed to know. She didn't believe, wasn't even aware that she was beautiful.

And then she smiled. Sherlock's breathe faltered, his lungs burning and making his eyes water as he took deep, soothing breaths to recover. _What was that about?_

It was one of those rare, extraordinary smiles, with that peculiar quality of eternal reassurance in it that you'd only find once in a lifetime. It seemed to face the whole, ever changing world for deliberation, and then concentrated on _you_ with an irresistible prejudice in your favour; as if the centre of this world, the centre of her universe was you, and nothing mattered more than you did. Its glowing radiance turned upon you and made you feel miraculous and fun, whether dull, dumb or ugly; and caused you to believe that, to her, you were the most wonderful person for her to ever be with. It was filled with the promises of admiration no matter what, for as long as you wished her to. Wonky and childlike, it endeared one to her with its lazy and crooked half-smile magnetism that seemed to pour laughter into her eyes, two dimples parading themselves on her left side, the side holding up her smile, and adding to her childlike charm. The wonky opening also displayed perfectly even, shining white teeth. The girl had braces then. That would explain the lack of self-confidence.

In her simple clothing choice of a blue and green plaid shirt fluttering that rested at her thighs, revealed tight, denim leggings covering long, streamlined legs, and a battered pair of size 4 ankle converse. Sherlock knew that she wanted to be seen as attainable, but not too easy.

And then his eyes caught onto something different. On her wrists, the girl had multiple wrist bands of various bands that Sherlock had never heard of, a rasta bead bracelet and a thin and worn piece of golden chain wound around her wrist that dangled down onto her palm with many little gems dangling devotedly. Within 2 seconds he knew that there were at least 3 birthstones, and others which included Emerald, Aquamarine, a tiny slab of Abalone shell and a piece of rocky iron pyrite. Each was about 5mm in diameter and was cut roughly.

32-24-38 – commonly thought of as a pear shape. Sherlock had to admit to himself that she was one of the more pretty women he'd ever seen. Supermodels do not count – they have extreme eating disorders and have absolutely no brain activity, even compared the normal level of idiocy that's considered natural within modern society. Besides, Supermodels had a high-maintenance, snobbish kind of beauty. This woman had an earthy beauty that was plain, but quietly charming.

It was then that Sherlock shook himself. What had come over him?

And then Mike spoke out.

"This is Johnnye Watson." Johnnye gave Mike a withering look, bit her bottom lip and looked down at the ground, before her eyes journeyed back to this stranger's face to gaze into those star-like silver eyes of his.

And then he was reaching out to her to take her phone, his fingers stroking her warm, velvet palm as he did so and making his breath hitch, which caused his lungs to burn and his eyes to threaten to water as precious oxygen was denied to his body.

Strangely, Sherlock felt a hot, tightening in his stomach, and a _stirring_ started inside him. Not quite like a feeling, but enough to be called a miniscule stirring nonetheless. Which was ridiculous in Sherlock's mind, as you cannot feel stirrings for someone at first sight, especially someone as intelligent as Sherlock. A genius like Sherlock didn't feel stirrings for anyone. Sherlock dove into sending the text. He dearly hope he sounded neutral to this woman as he asked her whether it was Afghanistan or Iraq that she'd fought in.

Surprise looked strangely sweet upon her face. Her brows rose to be lost from his sight by her thick fringe, her full lips formed pout a little as she bit at her bottom lip and her nose wrinkled and scrunched up – dare Sherlock say it? – _cutely_.

Sherlock suddenly had the strange thought that he'd never see a cuter sight. Then Sherlock was promptly proven wrong when confusion and thought came onto her face. Her brows furrowed, her pout turned downwards, as if sulking, her nose crinkled even more, and her head tilted slightly, as if evaluating him with her vivid orbs of golden amber colour, trying to crack the mystery through him.

Sherlock suddenly became alarmed. He'd never thought a woman as cute. And now here he was having done it to the same slip of a girl in less than five seconds. And he'd only _just_ met her.

Then the door once again opened, Molly came in bashfully and blushed at him saying "Ah, Molly. Coffee, thank you" as he took the cup from her.

Sherlock let himself frown theatrically at Molly. He stared at her lips and said "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly, the poor idiot, blushed a deep fuchsia as she mumbled out "It wasn't working for me."

Oh god, Women. Sherlock wanted to ask how women suppose men are meant to feel attraction if they change themselves so much as 'it wasn't working for them'? He wanted to ask whether Johnnye going to take off her ruby red lipstick as she thought that it 'wasn't working for her'?

Sherlock thought that Johnnye surely chose that because, from experience, she knew that it suited her, which it really did, rather than it being a spur of the moment decision. Surely, Sherlock thought, Johnnye knew that the bright hue of red was a very successful way to draw attention to one of her best features. Surely she knew that it drew a man's eye to her lips, and made him shudder at the delight in thinking of what it'd feel like to press his own lips against her full, wanting ones?

Not that that was what he wanted, nor was that what he was drawn to when he looked at her. He wasn't drawn to her at all. Not a jot. Not a single fibre of his being wanted to even think about _kissing a woman_.

Instead of voicing his thoughts, he merely rose his eyebrows and said "Really? I thought it was a big improvement." He started to walk away now to return to his experiment as he said "Your mouth's too... small now."

Johnnye and Mike didn't need to see the disappointment in Molly's voice, nor the sadness in her eyes, but they did. It was entirely in her voice as she sighed "Ok" and then walked out of the lab. Sherlock, however, heard and saw nothing of this, thinking merely about how to convince a very feminine war hero to have a flatshare with him.

Wanting to crack on with this, Sherlock hears himself ask "How do you feel about the violin?" Confusion showed itself once more on her face, and the thought came upon Sherlock again that it was _cute._ At her lack of understanding, Sherlock elaborated by telling her "I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gives the best smile he can for this woman, which is little more than a tweak of the sides of his mouth.

She shifts to raise a brow at Mike and says in a low, almost threatening voice "You two have talked about me before this?" Mike raised his palms to show his innocence as he thoroughly denied it, spluttering his way through a string of reason why she shouldn't accuse him. A slight smirk works her way onto her lips, and Sherlock found himself wanting to join in with her in her mocking of Mike.

After this, she turned back to face Sherlock with her amber eyes sparkling merrily and an insatiable curiosity in her purring voice "So, wait, who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend _clearly_ just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

The confidence and the damn near arrogance he said this with annoyed the crap out of John. And yet, she felt the tell tale fluttering of her stupid attraction coming through. Every man she'd dated had gotten this reaction out of her. They'd all been pricks. Stuck up, pompous twats who all thought that they were brilliant. But this guy was different. He made it sound as if he knew that he was brilliant, and the frustrated disdain said that he was tired of people not believing that he was brilliant.

But then he gave her a sarcastic, patronising smile, as if she was the biggest idiot for not understanding it. Anger raised its ugly head, and John tried to get a hold on her emotions. She'd always been a little irrational when she was mocked. She simply wouldn't stand for it. Not when she was in primary school when they teased her for having glasses, being a swot and having her weird eyes, and she certainly would not lay down for this guy mocking her intelligence. Except, she had to chillax. She had to. She needed this guy. Pissing him off won't help her get his empathy.

John, as she preferred, raised one brow and put a hand on her round waist in expectation of him to follow this with a follow up of how he did it. Guys this pain-in-the-ass arrogant always wanted and relished the chance to show off their greatness further.

This guy, however, seemed to relish being different more than getting admiration as he just went on as if she wasn't pulling her most you-know-you-wanna-explain-to-me pose on, drawling smoothly "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it." He shrugged on a long, black trench coat that reached his shins and put on a navy blue scarf around the turned up collar of his coat, looking at his own phone as he continued "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the Mortuary." By now, he'd reached Johnnye. She couldn't believe it. Not only was this guy the most infuriatingly arrogant, but he was decisive. And proud of it, too. It riled the shit out of her.

Raising a brow once again and with her hand still on her wide hips, she asked him with a laughing voice "Is that _it_?"

He turned to her, his own brows drawn higher with question as he answered with "Is that what?" Clearly, he loved to play games, his question tempting her to glare, but she tried to keep a smile on her face as she said "We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat together? With the all too real possibility that we'll want it and end up living together?"

The man's curving lips said sarcastic and his eyes said teasing, John decided that she probably wouldn't like this man. A man who tried to tempt her to rise and take his bait with his side smirk at Mike and his patronising tone when he asked her "Problem?"

John quickly retaliated with quipped words with more than a hint of accusation in them. "We don't know a thing about each other. You haven't given me a place. I don't even know your _name_."

The next words and sentences that he spoke seemed to flow flawlessly from his mouth, the knowledge he gained all coming out to bite John in her butt. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a sister who's worried about you, but you won't go to her for help because you don't approve of her, possibly because she's an alcoholic, more likely because she recently walked out on her husband. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid." He said the last part apologetically, regretfully, but John still felt the need to take a step back with her crippled leg so that it wasn't in his direct sight. As if that might save her from anymore talk of it with him.

And then the arrogance returned to smash the almost-respect he'd gained by being a little gentle when talking about her crippled leg. With an air of egotism and a smile that was all too familiar to John, having served in the army with many chauvinistic twats, he said "That's enough on be getting on with, don't you think?"

And then, with a swish of his coat, he was out of the door. And John was seriously considering whether she'd even bother to show. But then he was back in the doorway, letting the door frame his angular features as he leaned on it as he said proudly "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He clucked at her twice and threw a wink at her. John, much to her detriment in her mind, couldn't help but smirk at the audacity of this guy. This _man_. Throwing a swift "Afternoon" to Mike, who raised a hand as goodbye, Sherlock Holmes walked away from his first meeting with Johnnye Watson.

At Johnnye's incredulous expression, Mike nodded at her in confirmation and said "Yep. He's always like that."

* * *

After she'd returned home, Johnnye sat down on her rank bed, heard a metallic clank and hoped to whatever god would hear her that a spring had not just snapped. She then reached into the pocket of her tight leggings to read the message that Sherlock Holmes had sent on her phone. She went into messages and then into her sent ones to read:

_Messages – Sent_

_If brother has green ladder arrest brother. SH_

It caused John to wonder what this mysterious Sherlock did for a living. Obviously something to do with the force, otherwise why'd he send a text telling someone to arrest a guy? Sherlock obviously wasn't one for small talk. And only said meaningful things to people.

Setting up her laptop, she clicked up the browser and typed in his name. Curiously, she clicked onto Sherlock Holmes' own website. Slowly, as to not miss a single piece of data that this surprising man had typed, she swiftly learnt that he was some sort of detective. But the force didn't work with Private detectives. So, it left her to question well into the night until blessed sleep found her –

Who is Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

Hello, how did I do? Did I get it right? Or did I give Sherlock too much of a _stirring_? R/R please. I've said before if anyone reads my other stuff, I will name fingers and point names of my followers if they don't review the stuff they're following. Maybe even people from my favourites. Please? I'll even "beg for mercy twice".

Phoenix.


	4. 221B Baker Street

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert**: Don't own anything and make nothing.

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink.**

221B Bakers Street.

Walking along the pavement of Bakers Street, John had to look in awe at the tall flats and their small hanging window gardens, the stonework and the cleanliness of the pavement itself. Good central location, but far enough away to be quiet without lessening the locality of amenities and the usefulness of public transport.

Taking a deep, calming breath, she knocked on the door of 221B with the curving knocker and staggered back to wait it out.

"_Hello_"

Johnnye jumped at the sound of the purring drawl so close to her. Turning around as quickly as she could in her _condition_, she gave Sherlock Holmes her radiant smile, she teasingly fanned her face with her free hand as she breathed "Oh, it's you, Mr Holmes. You made me jump."

Sherlock's lips twitched to become a smile at her teasing, but he quickly whipped the small beginnings of a smile from his face. He realised that he was so close to Johnnye that he could breathe her in. The most delicate of scents, her hair didn't smell of grotesque products that most women slather onto themselves. No, not for Johnnye. The only thing that she smelt of was Jasmine. He saw that today she was wearing cropped Capri pants, an Army green parka over a creamy white cotton blouse and the same battered and worn ankle converse as she wore yesterday.

"Sherlock, please. Can't have such formalities when we're going to live together, now can we." It wasn't a question. He was demanding it of John. Not knowing where to look with Sherlock giving her such a penetrating stare, as if he was reading her every thought from her body language. Of course, coming from the Army, she was used to such stares coming from commanding officers while they were in their line-up, but John somehow knew that this man could read her so much more intimately than any in the Army could. She turned her attention to looking around again and said "This is a prime spot. It must be expensive?"

Sherlock was all too happy to tell this woman how he snagged this deal for them. "Mrs Hudson, the landlady – she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

John's face was incredulous, and maybe a little... _admiring_? Sherlock felt the same strange stirring as he felt yesterday when he felt the silk touch of her flesh in his stomach at the thought that this woman was admiring him. "You stopped her husband from getting executed?"

"Oh, no. I ensured it."

"Sherlock!" A old, crinkly voice called to him, the door open to reveal a kindly looking woman kissed by loving wrinkles of many years happiness and joy. She held out her arms, which Sherlock walked into and embraced her as a son. It made a slight grimace appear for a moment on John's face from an acute twinge of the heart. John tried to ignore it, and concentrated on smiling at the woman as she turned to her.

Sherlock's deep drawl introduced them. "Mrs Hudson, Dr Johnnye Watson."

Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at her, making a warm, tingly feeling warm the cockles of her heart from the inside out. And Johnnye wondered whether this was how it felt to be smiled at by your mother. "Come in, Dr Watson."

John stepped in, and said as warmly as she could. "Just John, thanks Mrs H." Mrs H smiled at her, and she knew then that, yes, this was how it felt to be smiled at with a loving mother. No sooner had the door closed had Mrs H tugged John close and gushed "Oh, Sherlock. Where _did_ you find her? Look at that skin." And Mrs H literally reached out and pinched John's cheeks before stating "As soft as a baby's bum. And those eyes!" John looked to the floor, the disgust in Mrs H's voice was enough, she didn't need to see it as well. She knew she was weird, with her dip-dye and her amber eyes, but she didn't need or want people to tell her of how odd she was. "Come on sweet pea, look at me with those gems of yours." Surprised, John looked up into the kind and embracing gaze of Mrs H, who stared into her irises with the intensity of a buzzard staring at a rabbit.

Once the introduction had been made and Mrs H had been forced to stop raving about John's eyes, they made their way up the stairs, with Sherlock bounding up in front of her like an excited puppy wanting his mistress to see the amazing stick he'd found. John hobbled more than bounded, and deeply appreciated the way that Sherlock took her hand to help her up the last few stairs. His hand was cool to the touch, and it made a shiver travel down her spine, pulling the strings of her flesh like an erotic spider dancing on its dewy web. Sherlock halted before the door, standing proudly before it like a guard with one of the fuzzy bear hats before the gates of Buckingham Palace, but John was pretty sure that Sherlock was only filling in a temporary position. Grandly, he opened the door and sprung in to allow her to view everything.

"Wow, this is nice. Homey"

And it was. Books lined the walls, a big fireplace was in the middle of the main wall, the two brown leather seats near the fireplace look worn and loved, and the place was cluttered. It felt... right. Cluttered maybe, but that was fixable.

"Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely." Sherlock looked around the place with a kind of love, as if his home was the best friend that he had.

Sherlock and John both started to speak at the same time, their words mashing over, but still discernable.

"So I went ahead and moved in." "As soon as we clear it out, scrub it up and put a lick of paint-"

John looked to Sherlock in embarrassment, she'd thought that the place needed to be cleared out. Her brows disappeared beneath her block fringe as they rose in surprise, her nose wrinkled in surprise again and her eyes swept down to stare at the floor. How humiliating! He won't want me to live here with him anymore. Nice, sturdy flooring though. "Oh, so this is all..."

"Well, obviously I can straighten things up a bit." Sherlock was as embarrassed as John was, and tried to sweep his things up into reasonable piles of organisation so that John wouldn't not want this place. He wanted her to live here, with him. Not that that meant he felt anything, but he knew that John was different, special somehow. He picked up his knife and stabbed it through his correspondence with whoever it was, when he heard her say softly "No, don't... it... makes it." Incredulous, he watched as she walked over, her hips swaying to a beat only she could hear... a swagger, he believed the 'In' crowd were calling it. As she neared, she crouched down to level her eyes to his skull. Eyes surveying it curiously, she asked breathlessly "Is that an actual skull?"

Sherlock almost felt a surge of warmth, of pride at her awed gaze. "A friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." He trailed it off to make a kind of joke, but when she didn't move or even look up, he deflated a little. But then she turned her head, and Sherlock was astounded to find her once-in-a-lifetime, wonky smile with its childlike charm and magnetism along with its eternal reassurance directed at _him_. As if in a trance, Sherlock watched as a chuckle rumbled through her chest, making her hair flick a little at the movement. And Sherlock _felt_ that eternal reassurance, he felt her prejudice turning in his favour, he felt as though he really was the most important person in her life, a miraculous find in this bustling city; as if she was choosing him out of everyone else as her favourite, giving him her faith, her admiration.

And with her golden amber eyes staring up with all her attention directed at him, it was all he could do not to blush, wring his hands and fidget in her curious gaze. Strangely, Sherlock felt, for the first time in his life, that her eyes were trying to open him up like a wrapped gift, calling to his soul to share with her what he knew in exchange for her favour. And, in that moment, Sherlock was scared. Sherlock knew that if she asked at that very moment, he'd tell her anything. Anything and everything would be hers to know and learn. He'd become her willing informant, her willing slave, just for the smile to stay upon him and the favour to remain prejudiced in his favour. And then, she gave him a strange half smile as she tilted her head. In anyone else, Sherlock would have seen it as mocking, but somehow he got the impression that that was just how she was – amused, yet cynical; optimistic, but not naïve.

"What do you think, sweet pea?" Mr Hudson had come up, her eagerness to please her tenants and her love of Sherlock making her interested in this woman who Sherlock had taken such a shining to.

"I love it. It's brill, Mrs H!" was the reply, her thrilling, musical voice and her sunlit smile turning itself to Mrs Hudson for her pleasure. And Mrs Hudson did take pleasure in her smile. She was quite taken by this woman, this polite, elegant woman who'd burst into Sherlock's life with such a kind way about her.

Now, for the history books, Mrs Hudson was not a busybody, but she wasn't an idiot much like her Sherlock liked to think. She saw quite clearly that Sherlock liked this Johnnye. His eyes hadn't left her once, not for one minute, save when he nervously tried to clear up his things. It seemed to her as though he was revaluing everything in his possession according to the measure of response it drew from the girl's startling honey eyes. His volumes of scientific volumes were suddenly revered as celestial as it brought a gasp to Johnnye's lips and a sparkle to her eyes; his precious skull suddenly so melodramatic as John said that it reminded her of Hamlet, before going on to ask if he'd seen it and, if not, would he like to see it being played in the West End sometime; and suddenly his once dull view of the road outside was highly cherished and seen as prettily as she saw it – bustling, vibrant and charming. At one point, Sherlock looked around the flat as though for the first time all over again. It was almost as if, in this girl's actual and astounding presence in his flat, none of it was real anymore, and Mrs Hudson couldn't be more pleased for him. Sherlock had never brought a woman into his flat, let alone had he asked one to live with him. And this Johnnye seemed a really nice girl.

"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

With a confused look making her brows furrow to meet her eyes as she walked over to Mrs Hudson, she said "Well, of course we'll be needing two, Mrs H. What kind of woman do you think I am?"

"Oh don't worry, sweet pea. There's all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door's got married men."

Brows raised once more, John looked to Sherlock, wanting to understand why Mrs H, as she was now dubbed, thought that they were a couple. Then again, John thought, a man and a woman moving in together, neither married and both around the same young age – people would naturally assume that. Mrs H moved into the kitchen and her disapproving frown could be heard in her voice as she said "Oh, Sherlock! The mess you've made."

John went to look in kitchen and saw the lab equipment scattered around the surfaces. Microscopes, test tubes and various other stuff for doing tests and experiments. Going to the fridge to peruse Sherlock's eating habits, you can always tell how healthy a person is by the contents of their fridge, she opened it only to have to shut it immediately. John gagged at the stench of rotting flesh that was coming out from it. Quickly, to evade the stench that'd travelled into her breathing space, she then went back into living room to look at Sherlock's expansive book collection. John was surprised at the amount of range he had –psychology to politics, science to Law, security systems to 'A Chess Master's thousand favourite moves', Latin texts to French texts to a fairly newish German book on culture.

John had only learnt Spanish at school, which she'd promptly forgotten entirely afterwards. She'd picked up a fair amount of knowledge on Arabic- she could read and speak it; she could curse sufficiently in Dari and Pashtu to make an Afghan police blush; and she could carry a decent, however basic, convo in Uzbec and Turkmen. But she knew that Sherlock would be much more fluent in other languages that he could best that. She guessed he could read and speak Latin, German, French, maybe some Russian going by the Russian phrasebook on the top shelf.

Over her shoulder, she looked to Sherlock and joked "I'm guessing that I don't wanna know what's gone jazzy in that fridge. Right?"

Sherlock's gaze went to the offending fridge and then moved back to look at John as he drawled in his bored way "Oh, just an experiment. Some hands that I'm testing, got them from Barts of course." He waved a hand towards the fridge, the movement as flowing and graceful as it was bored and short.

Still looking at books, John said "I looked you up on the interweb last night." She turned to face Sherlock to see him look swiftly to his papers, shuffling them as he said offhandedly "Anything interesting?"

"I found your website. _The Science of Deduction._"

An arrogant look fell onto his face and his shoulders arched back proudly so that his chest was bared forward. "What did you think?" John sent him a look, one that said '_Weeelll_'. Sherlock's proud smile fell and turned into a worried frown, his brows coming down to ripple his skin to produce frown lines that weren't there before.

Raising her hands- well, hand- palm facing him, she quickly tried again to make it seem as if it were just her who might have a problem with it. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it was incredible. Genius, even. But... you said that you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" She raised her brows to lose them in that thick fringe of hers and tilted her head as if to say '_Come on, you know what I mean._'

Oh, was _that_ all. Doubts in his abilities such as these can easily be remedied; let's tease her, give her only some confirmation. Haughtily raising himself up, Sherlock decided on "Yes. Just like I can read your military career from your face, your leg and your lipstick. And your sister's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"Care to clue me in on that?" John's eyes were suddenly giving him that glint again, and her smile was conspiratory, as if to say that it was just for them to share, just for them to keep secret. And Sherlock was honest-to-whatever-deity-you-like going to do it. Screw it, he thought. So what if he wanted this woman's appreciation. That's not asking for much, not asking for something impossible.

"-What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?" And then the moment was gone, smashed to smithereens by Mrs Hudson and her need to fill the silence. "I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same." John saw Sherlock look out of the window, his eye latching onto something as he said "Four. There's been a forth. And there's something different this time."

The stairs creaked as a man appeared out into the room. He was tall, but an inch or two shorter than Sherlock, and tanned. Oh so tanned. He was a deep caramel colour, his silver hair, crisp grey suit and white shirt drawing out the tan even more. He had deep, smouldering chocolate brown eyes that spoke so many volumes. They were _his _eyes. They were Duke's eyes. And here they were in another man looking at her new flatmate with an eagerness that was clear to see. John snapped her head back to continue perusing Sherlock's book collection, tears trickling into her eyes and burning their wish to be released. Bitterly, John blinked rapidly to divert the crises and tried to ignore the meeting between Sherlock and the man with her dead brother's eyes. But, as always, her curiosity got the better of her as the two men started talking.

"Where?" Sherlock's voice was clipped and crisp, but held in it a quiver of excitement. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The man replied, his voice tired and defeated, making John want to hold out her arms to this poor man and hold him until it all went away.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't come to me otherwise."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Sherlock give his affirmation, and the man continued with "Well this one did. Will you come?" His eyes were hopeful and begging, Sherlock was needed by this man. He looked desperate.

"Who's on forensics?"

The man sighed almost frustrated that he had to answer what he did as he told the detective. "Anderson"

Sherlock scoffed and growled out "He doesn't work well with me." Frustration in his tone, the man's voice higher in volume as he said "Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant."

Sherlock stopped and paused to look at the woman who was looking at them curiously, her odd golden amber eyes watching the interaction with much interest. It was after a few moments that Greg Lestrade realised that he no longer had Sherlock Holmes' attention, that it'd been accidentally commandeered by a cute brunette standing by his bookcase and an old tome in her dainty, young hands. Lestrade understood why the girl had stolen the Consulting Detective's attention. The girl was quite startlingly beautiful. With a statuesque physique, long thick chocolate brown hair, clear golden skin and – were her eyes gold or were they brown? Lestrade did a double take. And he concluded that the girl's eyes were temptresses, grasping a man's attention by playing a game of 'guess my colour'. Ripping his attention from her, Lestrade asked hurriedly "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind." The childishness of this haughty reply wanted John to backhand Sherlock around the face. But the man seemed happy, thanking Sherlock and turning to leave when his eyes caught sight of John staring from the bookshelves once more. Why not introduce myself to this lovely creature of Sherlock's, Lestrade thought.

"Hello." He held out his hand and said "Greg Lestrade. And you are?"

"Stop it! I thought you were just _leaving_?" Sherlock barked at the man. Greg Lestrade turned his gaze back to Sherlock, to whom he gave a heaving sigh before giving John a quick parting smile and left. _Spoilsport_, Lestrade thought as he made his way down the stairs.

Sherlock huffily turned back to the window to stare out of it as Lestrade's footsteps could be heard going out the door to let the door slam shut. There was a moment when Sherlock fought the smile that ached to get onto his face, before he accepted defeat and let himself revel in his emotions for a moment.

With startled, wide eyes, John watched as Sherlock leaped into the air, whooped in joy and yelled "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Suddenly Sherlock was shrugging on his jacket, snatching his gloves and scarf as he swept into the kitchen.

"I'm your landlady, dear. Not your housekeeper." Mrs H admonished, but it was said with a smile, so John didn't think to take anything by it. Sherlock certainly didn't as he quickly said "Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea and make yourself at home. Just don't snoop in that chest in the corner- might die." He sent over his shoulder a wink to John and yelled hurriedly "Don't wait up!" Before slamming the door and disappearing.

Mrs H sighed for a moment, before saying to the young thing still in a state of shock in the corner of the room "Look at him, dashing about... My husband was just the same. I'll make you that cuppa you rest your leg."

"_Damn my crippled leg!" _The terrible silence that followed this was incredibly destructive. But the look that John sent Mrs Hudson, a look of a woman who was so lost, so terribly saddened it made her heart give a pang of regret for the poor girl. "I'm so, so sorry. I-I just... with this stupid, bloody..." John trailed off her apology and sighed at having lost her temper _yet again_. She tried to make it up to her by giving her an apologetic smile. "I understand, sweet pea, I've got a hip." Mrs H tapped her hip and went out of the room to the sound of John laughing, a smile of contentment of her face for the first time in a while.

Still smiling, John waited a few moments before quickly checking that the coast was clear before rushing – well, as close to rushing as a cripple can- to kneel and wrench open the lid of the chest Sherlock mentioned. Pouting slightly, John was almost disappointed to see only more books leaking over the sides of the chest instead of the something that Sherlock told her might kill her.

John had known that she was possibly suicidal ever since she decided to do some skipping on her roof, which she had nice access to by her bedroom window. It was all for one thing. The rush, the buzz, the exquisite pain of adrenaline and fear mixing to flush around her body, making her heart beat fast and her mind wiz with the excitement. Her parents tried to get her into sport, art, music, anything and everything to make sure that she'd never do anything stupid and get herself killed.

"Don't you do what you're told?"

A smile on her face, John realised that Sherlock had been testing her. Whether she'd failed the test or passed it... well, she would soon find out. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and told him, half laughing. "Never have. Curiosity has always gets the better of me."

Sherlock stalked in, all tall, long lines and long, lean limbs as he said while tugging on a leather glove. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know." His tone was laughing, but there was a glint in his eye that watched her with a scavenger's thirst.

John closed the chest, got up and turned to face Sherlock to give her biggest smile as she joked "But the delight and extreme satisfaction of knowing brought him back, though."

Sherlock and John shared a smile, both secretly delighting in the whip fast wit of the other. Eventually, Sherlock drawled out "You're a Doctor. In fact, you're an Army Doctor." Still joking, John gave him a sloppy finger shot and purred "Got it right in one, boyo." She picked up the old tome that she'd taken out of the bookcase and strolled over to put it back. John, in this way, didn't see the half-flush that threatened to colour Sherlock's alabaster cheeks, and the almost appreciative look he sent her. After replacing the tome to its rightful place, John turned with a smile to face Sherlock and walked towards him, wanting to catch every syllable of his bored drawl that he chose to give her.

"Any good?"

"The best." It was that smile again. That same eternal reassurance in it and the childlike innocence of the dimples and of the wonkiness. Sherlock gulped to give moisture to his suddenly dry and unused throat as he said "You've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

As she neared even closer, John caught the smell of a deep, sensuous scent. It was like walking deep into a forest after a thunderstorm – being filled with the deep and slightly musky smell that was still invigorating. Profound and hypnotic, he smelt of man. She covered up her surprised delight with a frustrated "Pfft, duh." Rolling her eyes and blowing at her fringe to reveal more golden skin before saying "I saw nothing else for an entire five years of my life out there."

"A bit of trouble too, I bet?"

This time she scoffed, and said testily "Where else would I get this little crowd pleaser?" She motioned to her crippled leg, her hate for the injury coming through loud and clear for Sherlock. She finished off a little quieter with an apologetic "Enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock tried to drawl as bored and as phlegmatic as possible. But it didn't do any good, he still sounded a little excited when he said "Want to see some more? It could prove to be... educational." Any excuse, Sherlock thought, any excuse to have her by my side and make her see how brilliant I am.

Sherlock watched, enraptured, at the sight of her pupils widening as they rolled back into her skull and her lips leaving the silk touch of the other to let out a little mewl of delight before she gazed at Sherlock with a beautiful smirk, her golden brown eyes darkened as she looked through her lashes and called to him in a breathless purr "Oh sweet heavens, yes."

Sherlock stared a moment too long for his liking. His brain told his legs to get a move on and get to the crime scene, but his eyes vetoed his head and cemented his feet to the floor to take in the sight of John for a few extra moments of euphoric bliss.

But then they shot off, Sherlock slowing his usually long stride to accommodate for the hobble of his assistant. John's musical voice called from behind him as they got to the last bit of the stairs "Sorry Mrs H, I've totally spaced. I'm gonna have to skip that tea. We're off out." The excitement in her tones were intoxicating, when the sound had only just left the air and faded away he was yearning for his next dose. God, this girl was like a drug. _Addictive_.

"What? Both of you?"

Sherlock walked away from the doors and over to Mrs Hudson to say "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He kissed her cheek and smiled at the kind old woman. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent" she admonished. Sherlock rolled his eyes before yelling as he walked through the hall to the door. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

Sherlock calls for a taxi, John couldn't walk all the way to Brixton, and held open the door for her to get in, before walking around the back of the cab and got in the other side.

* * *

Ok guys, seriously? I have 11 followers and only one review. This is _insane_! Only MysteryintheShadows has bothered to review a story that they're following.

Johnnye is pronouced like Johnnie. Just so you know. :)

Please review? I'll do the next chapter quicker. ( 8 { - Puss in boots face. If you squint.

Phoenix.


	5. Revelations and more bloody stirrings

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: **_If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust. I just do this for fun._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink**

_Revelations and more bloody stirrings._

Mysterious. John thought that was the epitome of Sherlock. He was mystery personified. Sarcastic. Different. Genius. Brilliant. These were the main words going through her mind as she studied the mysterious detective.

What else could he be?

Looking down at the screen of his phone, John perused the face of her flatmate. The sharp angles of his strong, high cheekbones; the purity of his alabaster skin; his dark curls falling around him handsomely; and the glowing silver eyes that saw so much.

Sherlock felt her eyes on him, studying him studiously with her glowing golden amber orbs. As he turned to look at her, John's face snapped around to look out of the window. Sherlock bit his lip in thought as he pondered on how a good looking girl like John became the self-conscious woman she was instead of the confident, sassy woman she should have been. Braces weren't that bad, many celebrities had braces... or did they? Sherlock didn't keep up to date on mediocre subjects like those.

A bad upbringing perhaps?

Sherlock had had a reasonable upbringing. His mother was the pillar of his family, his father and brother, Mycroft, were the workaholics of the family. Then again, so was he. He wasn't happy unless he solved a case every day or so. But that was for the health of his brain, so that it didn't rot rather than for the simple pleasure of working. His father had been mysterious, aloof... and never there. His mother had tried hard to give Mycroft and himself all the love that a woman employed in an influential role in the Government and foreign relations could.

Smirking to himself at the thought of Donovan's face when she saw him walking onto the scene, and with a woman no less. He said to the woman next to him in what he hoped was an apathetic drawl "OK, you've got questions."

"Yeah, like, where the hell we're going?" The brashness of this woman was new and fresh. It was invigorating to meet a woman who didn't seem to know how to or bothered to use small talk.

"Crime scene. Next."

"Who are you? What do you do? I mean, you're obviously some kind of detective, but the Force doesn't go to private detectives. So, care to explain that, Houdini?"

Sherlock had to work off the surprise on his face before he could smile at this woman. Quite proud that she could make connections and think, not to mention that she had the courage to tease him, he almost had to cough to stop himself from laughing out loud. Sherlock was pleased that there was someone in the world that didn't feel the need to mock him. Well, John mocked him, but it was in a way that was almost kind and... _admiring_? Fighting the urge to smile, he said "Very good. I'm impressed. Normally people take far too long to work that out. I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

His satisfaction fell by the wayside when he turned to find her confusion covering her face at this. Her cute expression salved the deflation of his pride, and Sherlock found himself wondering what face she'd pull if he asked her to dinner. Would she wrinkle her nose? Would she raise her brows into her fringe? Would her lips part to let out a gasp of surprise?

To take his mind off of this train of thought, he explained to her "It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

At a very unlady-like snort coming from her, Sherlock looked to see her lips quivering violently, as if to take great pain in holding back her mellifluous and musical laughter. But then it erupted from her, and Sherlock felt a little part of him fill with masculine pride that he'd made this woman laugh. Her laughter, a sound of summer rain and summer sunshine, dripped down his spine like hot oil as he watched the sight of her throwing her head back so that it leant against her head rest, her rich dark chocolate hair glistening as it tickled her arms, as if trying to make her continue laughing just to hear the beautiful sound for a moment longer. "The Force doesn't consult amateurs."

The let down was harsh, whipping the smile that had been on his face completely off and his expression turned gloomy as he stared at her. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You seemed surprised."

"Is the secretive Consulting Detective finally gonna tell me how he knew?" John gasped melodramatically while slapping her two hands on respective cheeks, her eyes widening and twinkling with her joy. Sherlock tried and failed to stop a smirk come onto his face at her outrageous humour, before wiping his face of e_motion_ and saying stonily "I didn't know. I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, hell, even your lipstick said military."

At her gasp, Sherlock turned to see John lifting her small fingers to touch at her lips self-consciously. "My lipstick?"

"Yes, not a smudge out of place. You've been drilled so hard, that you can't even put on lipstick without the training coming through. Your conversation, however, said trained at Barts. So, Army Doctor. Obvious." Sherlock turned his stare to her tanned face, and the sparkling golden amber gems staring at him in surprise. "Your face is tanned, but there's a difference between the tan on your face and the tan above the wrists. So, you've been abroad, but you hadn't been sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says that original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action with a suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

"And the therapist?" Her voice was guarded, emotionless. Sherlock found that he found this voice lacking, he thoroughly prefered her voice filled with emotion and personality. It suited her bright personality.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your sister, Terri." At her thinking face with the furrowed bows and her biting her full, bottom lip, he expanded for her. "Your phone. It's expensive – e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratched. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. A woman like you wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

Confusion and surprise have been sweet on John's face, but Sherlock found realisation was sweeter – her whole face became luminous with her smile. "The inscription from Clark to his Terri."

"Terri Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you her old phone. Not your mother, this is a young woman gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, or certainly not one you're close to. So, sister it is. Now, Clark? Who's Clark? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. Expense of the phone says husband, not boyfriend. Must have given it to her recently, the model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months on and she's just given it away? If Clark had left _her_, she would've kept it. People do – sentiment. No, she wanted rid of it. She left _him_. She gave the phone to you, that says she wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your sister for help? That says that you've got problems with her. Maybe you liked her husband, maybe you didn't like her drinking."

"Ok, spill about the drinking. How in holy hell d'ya know?" The brashness, the inability for small talk was refreshing, like a salty wave washing over you on a scorching summer's day.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection – tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge, but her hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober person's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see. You were right."

Her face was covered with confusion again as she joked "What was I right about, oh wise Consulting Detective?"

"The Police don't consult amateurs."

The silence in the taxi was lengthy, but certainly not awkward like others he'd experienced hen he'd just said about how he gained information. Sherlock was just waiting for the disgust, the hatred, the let down. He was rather shocked then when she gushed out breathlessly "That was... _amazing_. I mean, that was, you know, real brill Sherlock. It was extraordinary."

His own brows furrowed now, his brain whirled as he tried desperately to figure out why she would be appreciative of such a simple thing. No one else had ever complimented his deductions. Certainly, no woman ever had. And certainly not like this. Straightening himself and bowing his chest with pride, he smirked to himself. He was right when he'd thought that she was unlike any other woman he'd ever met. But then his confusion came back to think of why she'd be so appreciative. Slightly nervous at her awed reaction, he blurted out "That's not what people normally say."

"And what do people normally say?" She teased him rotten, but, in an odd way, he liked it. It felt... _right_, somehow.

"'Piss off!'"

John couldn't stop her laughter as she thought about the miraculous nature of this man as they travelled closer to the blue flashing lights. Sherlock couldn't stop thinking of her laughter, she'd laughed at what he'd said. Just like earlier, he felt like he really was the most important man in John's world, like he was the only man that John paid attention to.

* * *

Hey peoples, I hope you all plan to review this chapter. Some of you, at least, would be much appreciated. I do like to improve my stories, you know. Is Sherlock feeling things too quickly, I had hoped to make it stark and surprising and confusing for him. Good?

Phoenix.


	6. We're all goin' to a bloody crime scene

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: **_If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust. I just do this for fun._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink**

_We're all goin' to a bloody crime scene._

Inside the building, Sherlock led John into the room where she'd need to put on some overalls. He, of course, would only put on some latex gloves. Anderson needed to learn what he was dealing with.

John had dealt with Donovan and Anderson well. She'd even blushed cutely and asked if she should just go back to the flat when Donovan started to mock Sherlock and asked her things like "Did he follow you home?" The more time he spends with her, the more cute she becomes. Sherlock knew that he was being weak by thinking such things, pondered whether he'd inhaled anything toxic lately that'd make him act like this. With all this... _emotion_.

When he'd made the deduction that Anderson and Donovan had spent last night together, John had stayed close, listened to his deductions and had laughed at their stunned silence when he said that Donovan must have scrubbed Anderson's floor going by the state of her knees, John's once-in-a-lifetime smile of sunshine being directed at him, the pulsing police lights making her golden chocolate eyes glow an eerie amber every time they hit her irises. Sherlock had led her into the building, helping her up the steps so that everyone saw that she let him. She actually _wanted_ him help her, he tried not to chuckle when he turned back to see their stunned gaping.

"You'll need to wear one of these."

She was teasing in a flattering way, and didn't seem to want him to be hurt by her words. When he'd asked if he'd got anything wrong, she'd been honest, but incredibly sweet about telling him that he got the gender of her sibling wrong. Terri was short for Hunter, and was an old nickname that had stuck into adult life, much to her brother's hatred for it. She also added that she and Hunter had never gotten on. Sherlock found himself being reminded of the relationship between Mycroft and himself. It was oddly familiar to listen to John's bitter tone as she told him that Hunter had bullied her when they were young, as Sherlock knew that he would've sounded exactly the same if it'd been him telling her about his relationship with his brother.

Doing as she was told, she smiled gratefully at Sherlock when he let her lean on him when stepping into the overalls and then when he kneeled to place the foot overalls over the worn and battered size 4 converse that she'd worn yesterday, his lips twitching upwards for a moment at her long, worn union jack laces.

"Who's this?"

It was DI Lestrade again. When pulling on her latex gloves, Johnnye smiled at the DI and then looked to Sherlock as he answered for her with a forceful "She's with me". The DI Bossman sighed and said "But who is she?" Sherlock sent a look to the bossman to say not to argue and to just take his answer that he repeated for his benefit of "She's with me."

Trying to diffuse the tension, John held out her hand and started "I'm-"

"Not. Interested." Sherlock said this forcefully, as if standing up for John's honour was almost too much. Either that or he didn't like her being so kind to the bossman. John blew at her fringe before biting at her lip in thought.

"Aren't you going to wear one?" John's inquisitive voice held disdain, but it was teasing. It said to Sherlock that she didn't like that she had to wear one but he got away without, like when at school the class got huffy when the he earned an extra gold star for knowing his multiplication. It struck Sherlock that Lestrade might have just been curious about John when he'd asked who she was, but Sherlock had felt protective, almost wildly territorial about her. She was _his_ sunshine, no one else's. Sherlock had to shake himself. What was coming over him? Maybe the doctor carried specific pheromones that made him act like a love-struck moron?

Sherlock listened to the information Lestrade gave them, all the while holding John's hand and helping her up the several flights of stairs. He chuckled as she whispered in his ear "Well, at least we know the killer had to have had the use of both legs." Her hot breath tickled his ears, and his stomach started to perform an acrobatics show, doing a fluttering motion that made him feel sick. He lead her into the room where the victim was laying on the floor face down, her hand near to 'Rache' that she'd obviously carved while she was dying.

John watched, transfixed, as Sherlock worked, wiping her coat, looking at her unused umbrella that was in her coat pocket and then sliding his fingers under her collar. From the looks of it, she was from out of town. John knew this as her umbrella was unused and looked dry, but her coat was damp and under her collar was damp too, which meant that she'd been in rain and harsh winds. But London hadn't had rain or harsh winds, so, therefore, she had to be from out of town. She then watched as Sherlock took out a small, portable magnifying glass and looked at the woman, then proceeded to take off her wedding ring and study it before replacing it.

"Got anything?" Lestrade was curious and looked a little desperate as he asked it, but Sherlock stayed as mysterious and aloof as before when he merely said quietly "Not much."

"She's German."

John squeaked in shock and jumped a little at Anderson appearing right behind her leaning on the door frame and speaking so loudly near her. Free hand on her heaving chest, she cursed heavily in Dari, using phrases her parents would've washed her mouth out with soap for uttering. So sue her, she'd lived with men for an entire five years of her life in a warzone. Anderson gave her a less than friendly smirk and said proudly "Rache. It's German for 'revenge'. Now, she could be trying to tell us-"

Anderson was cut off by Sherlock slamming the door while saying sarcastically "Thank you for your _inspired_ input, Anderson." Sherlock turned to her and asked "Are you alright?" John took her hand away from her chest and shrugged sheepishly while giving him a wide smile. Wide eyed and more than a little surprised, John watched earnestly as Sherlock started whizzing his thumbs over the keys.

"So... she's German?"

Still looking at his phone Sherlock snaps "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..." Sherlock smirks to his phone before continuing "... before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

Brows furrowed, John has to ask "Sherlock, was she writing Rachel?" Sherlock halted, staying very still and told her to say that again. John repeated her question and Sherlock turned to her, smiled proudly at her and said "Yes, well done!" He then bounded over to her, put his hands on her hips and picked her up and twirled her around, much to her utter shock which was voiced by her high shriek and protestation of "Sherlock! Put me down!" He did, after another twirl, and gave John her cane back.

The bossman, completely paralysed by the show of sentiment Sherlock had just performed, could only ask "She was writing 'Rachel'?"

Sherlock, thoroughly not amused by Lestrade's low-performance brain, snapped "No, she was leaving an angry note in German, Of course she was writing 'Rachel'! No other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" By now Sherlock had turned back to John and was looking to her for her thoughts.

Lestrade looked on in wonderment, but had to ask "How'd you get that?"

John blushed at the intense admiration Lestrade was looking at her with, when she looked to Sherlock he gave her a motion to usher her to explain. Biting her lip, she said slowly "Well, I guess I just figured that she wouldn't write revenge in German. So... Rachel just seemed logical." At the DI's continual stare, John began to waffle a little in her embarrassment "I just, I assumed that a woman who spoke German as a second language wouldn't bother writing a nonsensical, unhelpful message like revenge when she was dying. So, I wondered at what else it could be. And, Rachel seemed like the most likely word that it'd be."

She was stopped from going on as Sherlock said "Perfect deduction, John. Now, you're a medical woman. What do you think of the body?" The bossman didn't seem to like this, as he objected with "Wait, no, we've got a whole team right outside." Sherlock whipped around from where he'd been leading John towards the body by their joined hands to say "They won't work with me. She's an Army Doctor and my assistant."

John raised her hand, having been released by Sherlock, palm towards them and said "Look, I'm not a Med examiner, I've never worked with already dead bodies. And, if the bossman doesn't want me to be here I can easily-" Sherlock looked at her and said determinedly "No."

Lestrade tried to object once more as he said rather desperately "I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here." Sherlock stared at Lestrade in the most threatening way the DI had ever seen him, it made him shiver a little at the bottom of his stomach, like a primal urge to run away from such a dark, feral and menacing gaze. "Yes, because you need me." It was a deep growl that told him to give Sherlock this one thing, in return he'd solve the DI's case.

Lestrade sighed heavily before saying helplessly "Yes, I do. God help me."

Sherlock smirked and looked at John to proceed, he felt a stab of jealousy pinch his heart when John looked to Lestrade for confirmation. Anger made him glare as Lestrade said far too tetchily "Oh, do as he says. Help yourself" before stomping over to the door, calling for Anderson to keep everyone out for a couple of minutes and came back in to watch what the doctor would do.

Hesitantly, John walked towards the body and kneeled next to the head. Her head tilted, her eyes softened and shone with pity for the dead woman, and somehow Sherlock felt his own eyes soften as he watched the scene. He almost felt the pity of John towards the corpse, and who she was whn she was alive. No, Sherlock realised suddenly. John didn't pity the woman. Yes, she cared and sympathised, but she didn't lower the woman by giving her John's pity.

Gently, John lowered herself and moved the victim's hair to her other side so that she could view the neck, which was clean from signs of strangling, and then sniff at her mouth. John's nose wrinkled at the bad smell, but she knew that it wasn't rank enough to mean that she'd been drinking. Then, she slowly levelled her head against the wood flooring to stare into the woman's forever staring eyes, then raised herself, picked up the dead woman's wrist reverently and felt for how stiff it is. She then turned it over to see for any needle marks along her soft, tissue undersiding of the arm. Feeling none and being able to spot nothing, John frowned a little. Normally there would be some markings, something.

John had wanted to remain neutral, but she was beginning to conclude that her being one of the suicides was likely.

Resting back to lean on her toes, she looked up to Sherlock and told him "Was probably Asphyxiation - she passed out, choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her, she wasn't strangled, and she didn't inject herself. She could've swallowed the drugs, it might have been a seizure." Sherlock, kneeling the other side of the body told her softly "You know it is. You've read the papers." Grabbing her cane, she rose before Sherlock could even offer to help her. Just to show him that she was capable. Stretching slightly, John said "Yeah, but I was trying to be professional and stay impartial about it."

Smiling, Sherlock knew that he and John were going to get on. She wasn't much of an idiot, she was good at what she did and she could crack almost-jokes at a crime scene while holding a straight face.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you got."

Chest bowing with pride, Sherlock let the words flow out of him, striving to impress this woman.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious by the size of her suitcase."

John looked around the room for the case, but there wasn't one in this room. John presumed that it would be a pink case. Just look at the woman's clothes. Plus, a woman that clothes conscious would want to match. Especially if she matched her lipstick with her shoes. The DI was as stumped as John as he said "Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew that she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake! If you're just making this up..."

Pointing to the woman's left hand, Sherlock started off again. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The state of her marriage, right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover. She'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so it's more likely a sting of them. Simple."

"That's brill, Sherlock!" John commented without thinking, and she ended up blushing at the shocked look she received from Sherlock and the DI bossman. Her honey gold eyes shot to the floor and she felt the heat of a blush light up her cheeks.

"Cardiff?" Her saviour DI comes to the rescue. Sherlock's attention rips away from John to look at Lestrade as he said proudly "It's obvious, isn't it?"

Biting her lip, John's curiosity overcame her and she asked "Is that where the rain and harsh winds were, then?" She received another proud look as the DI bossman looked at the two with confusion once more. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring, don't you think John?"

Sherlock looked to John in such a way that meant that she had to laugh at him. But she merely snorted into her hand and looked apologetically at Lestrade as Sherlock explained "Her coat – it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too – she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and used. Not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she's must have come a decent distance. But she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her cot still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of the travel time. Cardiff." He showed the weather report to the DI bossman and then showed John, who said to him "That's fantastic!"

Sherlock was even more stunned than when they were in the cab. John was halfway there to getting the same conclusion, yet she still found it surprising and admired him for it? What kind of woman was she? Turning to her he said lowly "D'you know you do that out loud?"

The pretty blush that colours her cheeks as she looks to the floor is flattering for Sherlock and scary at the same time. He was a genius and the world's only Consulting Detective, but his brain just couldn't work out why she would be so appreciative.

The blush was obvious. She respected him for his deductions and the incredulous looks that he was giving her made her think that he was disapproving. Her eyes moving to look at the floor was from the embarrassment of being looked at like she was when she wasn't used to it. "Sorry. I'll, erm, shut up." She bit her lip and looked away from him, having moved her eyes to take him in when she said what she did, to miss the look he gave her.

Softly, so that she'd know that he meant it, he told her "No, it's fine." John looked up into Sherlock's silver eyes that were so intelligent and all-seeing, and smiled widely at him. The way he said that it was 'fine' sounded more like a 'nice' to her.

"Why'd you keep saying suitcase?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade's stupidity, loving the sound of John's snort of amusement when she saw him do it. Wanting to really prove his mettle to John, he pointed to the victim's lower part of her right leg where black mud splodges were and said "Back of the leg – tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a heeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes conscious – could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

Sherlock felt interminably proud at the look of admiration of John's face as she smiled her once-in-a-lifetime smile at _him_, and Sherlock felt the stirrings again, his stomach doing that moronic fluttery thing again that made him feel sick. He snapped his head away from the sunlight of John's smile to look at Lestrade as he questioned "Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case."

Sherlock made Lestrade repeat himself before he leaped out of the room shouting "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" John followed the DI out into the hall from the stairs as he yelled that there wasn't a case to the buzzing Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and leaned out over the banister to yell to us "But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the poison themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

Leaning over the banister himself, the DI yelled "Right, yeah, thanks! _And_...?" to the detective rampaging down the stairs. Sherlock stopped in front of the Force team as he said "It's murder. All of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides. They're killings, serial killings." He claps his hands in front of him as he said excitedly "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

John's brows rose in shock, Sherlock was excited by a serial murderer? Meanwhile, Lestrade asked down the stairwell "Why are you saying that?" Sherlock leans over the banister to yell impatiently "Her case! Come on, where is her case? _Did she eat it?!_ Someone else was here and they took her case." Sherlock then began to talk quieter, but it was still discernable "So the killer must have driven her here. Forgot her case was in the car." Lestrade tried to come up with other ideas and yelled out the suggestion "Maybe she checked into a hotel and her case is there?" Looking up the stairs again, Sherlock called his reasoning of "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd have _never_ left any hotel with her hair still looking-" Sherlock stopped suddenly before gasping out "Oh." His face lights up and his eyes widen as he yells out "Oh!" and claps his hands in delight. When asked by the DI bossman what the matter was, Sherlock mused to himself "Serial killer's always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade yelled it down the middle of the stairs, his frustration defined in the cracking of his voice. Sherlock paid no mind and told them "Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really _look_! Houston, we _have_ a mistake. Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" as he rushed down the stairs to then disappear from view completely. Lestrade yelled at him to tell them what the mistake was, Sherlock ran back into view, up a couple of steps and leaned over the banister as he yelled up to us "_PINK!_"

And then Sherlock Holmes disappeared.

* * *

I hope you like it! Tell me what you think, please. Don't forget that I know each and every one of my follower's names - I know who you are. I'd like to know yet again if I've pushed Sherlock too far on this one. Don't just un-follow me, review and tell me why first. Please?

Phoenix.


	7. Abduction and the Boogeyman

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: **_If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust. I just do this for fun._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink**

_Abduction and the Boogeyman._

John hadn't found Sherlock after all, having divested herself of the overalls, and gone outside. And as she walked along the pavement now, she didn't think that she'd see him again this night.

She'd almost had a fit when not only did some of the Force crew bump into her as they rushed to examine the crime scene, but Lestrade had ignored her to go back into the room, and when travelling down the staircase to leave, a police officer had bumped right into her and didn't even apologise. His friend at least had the dignity to smile apologetically and help her regain her balance, the cripple that she was.

Donovan had at least not taken it too harshly that she'd laughed when Sherlock had ousted her and Anderson's little romp last night, helping her by telling her that she should be able to get a cab on the main road. She also warned John away from Sherlock, telling her that Sherlock 'got off' on weird crimes, the weirder the better. Telling her that they would be standing around a body one day and that Sherlock Holmes will be the one who'd put it there, just 'being there' not being enough after a while. She then said that Sherlock was a Psychopath and gave one last warning to stay away as a 'nice girl like you shouldn't be subjected to the company of someone like Sherlock Holmes.' She then left to return to the heels of her master, Lestrade, who'd called for her.

The crowds once she reached the main road were bustling through the streets in defiance of the darkness that crowded the sky line above their heads.

There was a ringing phone in a shop she was passing called the 'Chicken Cottage', which stopped when an attendant went to answer it. Weird, John thought. Just like that phone box that'd rung near the crime scene, but had stopped when she'd ignored it. She might have been wrong. But her spidey-senses were tingling, and the thought that someone wanted to talk with her was becoming a very large possibility. She walked along and then came to another public phone box, which was also ringing. Ringing for her?

Curious as to who or what was pulling this gig off, she stepped into the phone booth and picked up the phone, held it to her ear and spoke out "'Lo?"

"_There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?_"

It was a man' voice, low and dangerous. Shocked, she turned to where she was told to look and saw a security camera looking straight at her. "Yes, I'm not blind. I see it. Now what?"

_"Watch."_

The camera then swivelled away to look into the road. Surprised, John's brows raised to be lost under her full, block fringe and her sweet, blood red lips formed a perfect 'O'.

"_There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?_"

The second camera was also looking at her, she mmm-hmmed, and it moved away. Just like the one before it.

_"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."_

Her golden amber eyes watched as the third CCTV camera in a row swiveled away from her when it was established that she could see it.

"_Get into the car, Doctor Watson._"

A snazzy black car pulls up at the curd just beyond the phone booth that she was in, the lights of the town playing on the shiny surface to make an almost hologram firework how. A driver got out and opened the rear door respectfully, ready for John to go to get in.

"_I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you._"

The phone went dead, and the incessant ringing in John's ear made her wince and put the phone back into its holder. With little choice, she sincerely doubted that she'd make a get-a-way with her crippled leg, she hobbled over to the car and gave a small smile to the driver, who helped John get into the car.

* * *

They travelled to a Warehouse. Little miss not-Anthea had kept her eyes on her Blackberry and had typed with well muscled thumbs, only breaking her gaze to look at John to smile as she answered her questions. Well, she told John her fake name, told her that it wasn't her real name when John had asked and had answered her last question by telling her that there wasn't any point in John asking where they were going.

A man in a suit, looked roughly thirties, maybe early forties stood in the middle of the large space. He had slicked back black hair, perfectly shaved skin and blue eyes that searched her every move whilst she walked towards him. He was leaning nonchalantly against a steel tipped umbrella, and gestured to a straight-backed, armless chair that was facing him and told her to take a seat.

"You know, I'm all up-to-date and everything – I have a phone. I mean, this is all... you know, smart and, like, whatever. But you could've just phoned me. _On my phone_."

This disrespect was not something that John could've helped, she was thoroughly pissed at being abducted by some sergeant pompous and his little phone-clinger-assistant and being taken without her knowledge to somewhere that would've made a perfect spot for another murder. Hey, maybe she should give the murderer a call and recommend this place for his next.

The man didn't seem put out by her hostility, instead saying intelligibly "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete. Hence this place." He waved his umbrella to motion to the half-abandoned warehouse. "Your leg must be hurting you." He said this rather concerned, but then his voice became stern as he ordered "Sit down".

John scoffed at his thinking that she would be afraid by a little power-play like this. Hell, if he thought that _this_ was a power play, he should experience a power-play by the Al-Qaeda. Now they knew how to do a power-play.

"You don't seem very afraid." The man remarked this conversationally, as if we were discussing the bad weather over a pot of tea. John rolled her eyes quite visibly before saying to him sarcastically "Yeah, cuz you are _so_ the bogeyman." She fake-freaked, gasping and widening her eyes in fake terror. She then dropped the stand up to scoff again before saying with a laugh "Give me a break, boogeyman."

John knew officials. She knew how to press on their buttons. She'd learnt when she was a teen when she was arrested for staying up on the roof of her own house after the police had asked her to and the Fire crew had to get a ladder to fetch her. She'd become a master when she was arrested a second time after having hacked into the Head of Education's laptop and tried to rearrange the curriculum so that they were taught in more interesting way at school, like being taken out onto the school field and restaging a famous battle or something rather than reading it from a stupid textbook.

The man chuckled at her, it was a cold laugh however, and made a chill crawl down her back. Ok, now she was a little worried. No lackey had the time to waste government or corporate money using their office hours to practise a laugh like that. She figured that he was pretty big, but not PM big, you know. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Or as Sherlock called you, a war hero." His smile became cold too, a mere primal baring of teeth as he continued disdainfully "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. Don't you think?"

John glared heatedly at the man who dared insult her, right in front of her face, and laugh at her like she was a little child. Her free hand turned into fists, the hand holding her cane trying to crush the flimsy thing so that she'd have to live without it.

The man looked at her sternly, as if to warn her to not mock him again, as he said "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

Brows furrowed and nose wrinkled up in thought, Mycroft had to admit that when his brother finally chose a girl, he chose nicely. Johnnye Watson's report came up far more interesting than he thought they would. And with a far sadder tale than Mycroft would've thought for such an ordinary woman.

Middle class family, lived in a third floor flat in Camden Town. Mother was a freelance journalist from a family of Military history, serial adulteress. Died when the girl was 6 in a drink driving accident, mother was the guilty party. Her father ran his own motor business that prospered, committed suicide when the girl was 13 - heavily depressed and traumatized by the event of his wife's death. She and her two elder brothers were raised by their paternal grandmother, who died when Johnnye was 16.

She got in trouble with the Police three times in her youth – the first was when she refused to vacate her roof, the second when she hacked into the Minister for Education's computer, the third was when she'd hacked into a very important figure in the Defence's computer and had almost accessed information of the weakness of-

_Well, you don't need to know that._

She went to train to be an Army Doctor, took acouple of years off to travel and then joined her eldest brother Duke Watson in the warzone. Brother died by bombings, she got shot trying to save him. Such a sad life story for such a delicate creature. And here she was mocking him and churning up sarcastic retorts faster than most women could given time for practice.

"I don't have one. I met him..." her honey eyes travelled sluggishly up as she thought, coming to rest on him with an almost discerning stare as she finished "...yesterday."

"And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

John scoffed once more, rolling her eyes so hard her pupils got lost halfway through underneath her eyelids. Putting her free hand on her waist she sneered insincerely "I'm sorry. But my daddy told me not to talk to strangers. Especially one's who abduct you and take you somewhere... '_discrete'_." She then cocked a brow and asked sceptically "Why should it interest you anyway?"

John watched the man smirk a little at her, making her rile up in indignation, before saying "I'm merely an interested party."

"Mmm-hmm."

Mycroft would never admit it, but Johnnye Watson's raised eyebrow and lips tilted sarcastically upwards was a very good way of making people uncomfortable, a sure way to make them want to waffle on and give out some confidential information. She could have made a brilliant agent had they taken her in when she'd hacked into the Minister for Education's computer. Then she ground out "Why?" With a knowing look she smiled mockingly, showing her childlike dimples, and said sweetly "I'm guessing you're not friends."

John watched as the man rolled his own eyes and said to her "You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." At Johnnye's asking, he answered what he was by a simple "An enemy". Her face boring into him, a look that clearly stated her displeasure as she scoffed and droned out "You've gotta be kidding me." To this, Mycroft gave in to that urge to answer it by telling her "In _his_ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Mycroft was more than a little surprised when Johnnye blew at her fringe before she sneered so sarcastically people on the other side of London would've been able to tell "Well, thank god _you're_ above all of that, huh?"

An awkward silence came about when AC/DC's 'You shook me all night long' came on. John scrunched her eyes in embarrassment before smiling sheepishly at the man as she pulled out her phone and pulled up her new text, effectively stopping the music.

_Baker Street.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

John almost wanted to tell him that he was; but reasoning told her to at least try to be polite, so she told him that he wasn't and to continue. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" John scoffed at him and said disdainfully "I could be wrong... but, I think you'll find that's none of your business."

"It _could_ be."

Despite his ominous tone, she glared steely at him and said "It _really _couldn't."

John watched as the man brought out a notebook and told her "If you _do_ move into, erm... two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." Having used it, he tucked the notebook back into an inside pocket of his smart suit jacket.

"Why?"

Mycroft found her lack of capacity to perform small talk or false politeness just for the sake of it refreshing. He suspected that Sherlock did too. He knew his brother. Knew him better than Sherlock would like to believe that he does. And he knew that they shared the dislike of inane small talk and false politeness that society dictates is right. So to find a girl who knew nothing of either was invigorating and interesting. And he knew his brother was a great fan of interesting. "Because you're not a wealthy woman."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... _uncomfortable_ with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

Christ, not even being concerned with her feminine delicateness made her waver. Then again, she was an Army Doctor just back from Afghanistan. What else would she be? The Army taught them well. Mycroft made the point of noting to himself that her trainer should be given a raise, or something extra to his pension if he'd already retired. "I worry about him. Constantly."

Mycroft was surprised once more by this John, as she likes to be called, as most females would have been quite taken by the fact that he was worried for Sherlock. But not her. Not this woman. Nope, she just kept asking her blunt questions with the same piercing stare.

"_That's nice of you_."

It was harsh and insincere. She was being sarcastic again. Mycroft found her intriguing, certainly someone his brother wouldn't get tired of very quickly. Mycroft waved his umbrella slightly and pointed its steel tip to the ground as he told her the suitable precautions of "But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a..." Mycroft tried for the right word to describe what was between them, he didn't want to be silent for too long so he plumped for "... difficult relationship."

Again, her ringtone of AC/DC echoed eerily around the abandoned warehouse as she snatched it up and silenced it by reading her text.

_If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
SH_

"No."

"But I haven't even mentioned a figure." John liked that the guy's voice sounded surprised. Good, she thought, maybe you might stop buggering around acting all smug now. Putting her phone away, she told him "Don't bother."

The man laughed at her, making her feel like she was standing in the playground once more with bullies like Hunter surrounding her, pushing her around their circle. "You're very loyal, _very_ quickly." Glaring at him for having made fun of her, she ground out through clenched teeth "Nope. I'm just not interested."

The man smirked before he pulled out his notebook again. Opening it to the right page he gestured slightly to it to make it clear to her that he was reading straight from it when he said "'Trust Issues' it says here." John looked searchingly at the man, trying to figure out what it was he wanted, apart from info on her flatmate. The man took no notice of her as he continued "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

Hand on her hip, she raised a brow again and asked "And who says that I trust him?"

Still seemingly ignoring her, he says "You don't seem the type to make friends easily."

"Are we done?" This come out slightly harsher than she wanted, but it at least makes him listen to her. Raising his own brows, he said "You tell me."

John turned swiftly and started to hobble her way back to the car, pointedly not even going to say goodbye, such was her dislike of the man. She stopped however, when he said "I imagine people have already told you to stay away from him, but I can tell from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John trembled a little in rage, and shook her head at herself not to let her curiosity get the better of her. But there she went, turning back to stare at him, visibly annoyed as she asked through bared teeth "Come again?"

Calmly, the man told her to show him, nodding to her left hand as he said it. He planted the tip of his umbrella down on the floor, leaning casually against it, as if he's used to everyone doing as he tells them to. Smirking to herself inwardly, she raised her left hand, but stayed where she is. She hoped her message was clear enough – if he wanted to look, he'd have to come to her.

Unperturbed by her show of disrespect towards him, he hung his umbrella over his arm as he strolled towards her and reached for her hand. "Don't" she ordered him, snatching her hand away. The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows as if to say '_Did I mention the Trust Issues part?'_

Reluctantly, John lowered her hand and allowed the man to take hold with both hands as he closely inspected it. "Remarkable" he said while staring at her small, delicate hand with its dainty fingers and elegant nails painted a neon baby blue. Snatching her hand away, she raised a brow as if to say '_Ya gonna spill the beans?'_

The man turned away and seemed to speak to a grand audience. "Most people blunder around this city... and all they see are streets and cars and shops. But when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turned back to face her as he said "You've seen it already, haven't you."

"And my hand?" She raised it again, palm to her as she said it in a frustrated tone that very clearly said '_Get to the frickin' point already!_'

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Unbeknownst to her, John nodded her head softly, allowing Mycroft to see her insecurities about her physical malfunction. "Your therapist thinks you're haunted by memories of you military service." Mycroft notes the anger in her face, the fire in her whisky eyes that she's fighting to hold back. Staring into his eyes, John raised both brows as a question to make him continue, and he obliged. "Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war Doctor Watson... you miss it." He leaned toward her and whispered "Welcome back."

Another round of AC/DC came on and John hurriedly got her phone to silence it so that she could hear the man say "Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." He swung his umbrella as he walked away, seemingly contemplating her decision.

John checked her message and read:

_Could be dangerous.  
SH_

* * *

John stopped off at her old flat to pick up her things. After seeing 221B, she was loath to spend another night at this dump.

She opened the drawer at her desk and took out her pistol. She closed her eyes as she checked the clip, she hadn't heard the sound for an age, and she missed it. She tucked it into the back waistband of her cropped Capri pants. She then pulled out her army kit bag from under her bed and chucked in her life. Which wasn't a lot, she hadn't many earthly possessions to fill the metre and a half long kit bag that she'd kept.

While packing a small jewellery box filled with a rainbow of tissue paper. With a slip of her fingers, the box fell to the floor and the tissue paper spilled out. Out slipped two dog tags on a single army green chord.

A choked gasp wrangled its way out of John's lips. On her knees, she quickly clutched the tags to her heart and let her breathing slowly calm itself to a deep, reassured beat. Then, slowly and timidly of the burning in her blood and the hollowness that ate into her heart, she held the tags out so that she could read the inscriptions.

_'Dr CPT J.C.P. WATSON 'SGT D. H. WATSON_

_#25237007' #96730969'_

Johnnye Constance Pamela Watson desperately blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. This was why she had kept the tags out of sight. She'd put them on a single chain to wear them to keep Duke close to her, but she hadn't been able to latch eyes on them, let alone wear them, without feeling the hollowness that ate at her. Sherlock could read Hunter's and Clark's failed civil partnership from Hunter's old phone that she'd been given. Perhaps Sherlock would be able to read her past and Duke from her necklace.

Feeling brave, she bit the wobbling bottom lip of hers as she secured the catch of the chord to anchor her beloved brother to her. The tags brushed the top of her breasts comfortingly, the cold metal bringing her back to reality.

Time to put her big girl knickers on and deal with it.

John secured the buckle of her kit bag's lid and slugged the broad denim strap of her army kit bag over her shoulders to hang heavily and tickle the back of her shins.

Having taken one last look, she switched the lights off and locked the front door on her way out.

* * *

Wow! I am so thrilled and very surprised that so many people have reviewed my humble little story. I actually have more reviews now than followers. Only by one review though guys, so let's not get complacent now. Please review and let me know what you think. I really appreciate it and it helps me improve it for your reading pleasure.

Phoenix.


	8. Back at Base Camp

**Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: **_If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust. I just do this for fun._

* * *

**A Study in Hot Pink**

_Back at Base Camp._

"Listen, your boss... Is there any chance that you might not tell him that this was not where I went?"

"Sure" she said non-chalantly with a pretty smile, but there was something off about the way she did it that made John's spidey senses tingle.

"You've texted him it already, haven't you?"

Not-Anthea smiled conspiratorially as she said "Yeah." Nodding resignedly, John took one look at the Bogeyman's crazy-hot assistant not-Anthea. She was gorgeous in her high-maintenance flicky hair and her smouldering chocolate eyes and the almost snobbish way she acted. John might almost have been tempted to ask her out, but then again... who wanted to date someone like not-Anthea. Thninking about it, she was so not John's type. John preferred her partners to actually be interested in her, maybe even talk to her once in a while. She got out of the car and watched the car drive away before she turned and walked across the pavement to knock on the front door of 221B.

After being let in by Mrs H, John went and placed her kit bag on her nice, fluffy bed to put away later and took off the combination lock and placed that in the drawer of her dresser. The room was a nice size, with a deep window seat that nuzzed a large, south facing arched window that faced the road. The only thing she didn't like was the wall colour. It was covered in an emerald green wall paper that looked like a blind person had chosen it. No matter. She'd soon have that stripped off and have the wall painted over with a nice golden honey. With a colour like that and the angle this had with the sun, it'll catch fire when the light bursts in.

She then went downstairs to hear Sherlock give a huge, noisy sigh. He was laid on his fainting chair thing, his jacket thrown to the sidelines and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows with the buttons undone. His eyes had been closed, but they then snapped open to stare fixedly at the ceiling. He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his left fist, the arm on which his right hand had been pressing its palm tightly onto the underside just below his elbow.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock might have been embarrassed that John saw him in such a way had he not had three patches on, but, since he did, he very calmly told her "Nicotine patch. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He lifted his right hand to show her his patches, before he put his hand back to sustain the pressure that'd let the chemicals diffuse into his body quicker.

"Yeah, but good for breathing."

Sherlock wanted to agree, he really did. But they helped him solve cases and calm down, so he had to side with the nicotine on this one. Dismissively he answered her "Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring." He turned his head to her when he heard her snort disdainfully. Her nose was crinkled and her eyes were sparkling in their slight inset positioning as she said "Yeah, try saying that when you're dying from cancerous growths in your lungs. Hang on Houdini, is that... _three_ patches?"

"It's a three patch problem."

John scoffed and told him that he was "Unbelievable" before stomping over to the kitchen. Sherlock felt a pang in is heart. He didn't want to fight with her, especially when he had a case to crack. He didn't want to be distracted from this interesting case by a woman, even if she was his ex Army Doctor assistant who was actually quite diverting.

It was as she moved into the kitchen that he noticed that she was carrying a tea tin with Indian styled decoration. It was a fairly large sized tin, large enough to need both of her hands to hold it. Then again, Sherlock thought to himself, her hands were very petite, so that didn't say much about the tin's size. Sherlock guessed from her reaction to his nicotine-patch use that she was a health fanatic. So... something like green or decaf, perhaps?

After a moment of opening a couple of cabinets, probably to find one suitable, she came back to stand above him with a hand on her hip and a raised brow to ask him "Well? You wanted me to come. I expect that it's vaguely important?"

Sherlock suddenly remembered why he'd texted her. His eyes snapped open, his palm raised up and stretched towards her and his head turned to her as he told her "I need to use your phone. Always a chance that my number will be recognised. It's on the website."

Both brows now hidden from sight under her fringe, John felt a twinge of annoyance return to her at the thought that he had summoned her from the other side of London to... _lend him her phone?_

"You know, Mrs H has a phone."

Sherlock heard loud and clear the annoyance in her voice, the want to probably slap him in frustration. He wanted to make her aware that he wasn't the guilty party in this, and said "Yeah, she's downstairs, though. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

Sherlock heard the scoff of indignation of being summoned and turned his head just in time to witness her rolling her eyes, scrunching them and waving her left fist around in her out-and-out anger. Sherlock noticed two dog tags tinkle against one another as they flew as John turned harshly to face him, her eyes glaring and her pout downturned as she growled "I _was_ the other side of London, you know. I only rushed 'cause _you_ texted me that it was dangerous."

Sherlock wanted to speak quickly and resolve the matter by showing apology. But the nicotine was taking effect and his voice sounded calm and serene as he said "There was no rush."

She glared even harder at him, and Sherlock swore that he could feel the daggers piercing his heart from her angered gaze as she took out the phone and chucked it at him. He was unready for the harsh impact the phone made with his stomach, and made a grunt as it made impact with him. He then raised his head to glare at her as he picked the phone up and held it between his palms as he strategized the likelihood of it meaning that John would get hurt. The odds were low, but was he willing to risk it?

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."

John heard Sherlock's whispered speech, and her mind started to whiz as it thought about what Sherlock could be meaning. But she knew immediately that she wasn't going to like it.

"On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

Literally trembling with rage, John cannot believe that Sherlock was so... selfish, conceited and lazy.

Sherlock was holding out her phone in his palm, eyes closed and totally oblivious to the rage that was overtaking his flatmate. The anger and accusation in John's voice was so evident in her voice when she said "You sent me here to... _send a text_?" that it made Sherlock open his eyes and look to her in shock as he noted the obvious signs of her anger. Sherlock knew that he needed to do something. He didn't want her to be angry with him.

Slowly, he got up and walked straight over the table to near her, all the while keeping his eyes locked on hers. Gently he took her hands and placed the phone within them, letting his fingers delay themselves by stroking her soft golden skin as he said low and almost hypnotically "Thank you for coming, John. I appreciate it."

Sherlock knew that John wasn't likely to appreciate him trying to get around her by flirting, but desperate times and all of that. And anyway, Molly never seemed to mind.

John stared into his silver eyes, trying to get a feel for who this guy was. She felt Sherlock's hands running over her own, and revelled in the way they felt. They were rough and slightly calloused. Manly. She looked at them, tilting her head as she wondered at how much larger his were when running themselves over hers.

Suddenly, a small part of her rational brain started to scream. And John realised that, from what she'd seen tongiht, Sherlock wouldn't ever act like this. It didn't seem to be in his nature. And then she realised that he was trying to get around her by flirting. Glaring tetchily at him, she snatched both her hands and her phone away from him and said "Don't try to flirt to get around me, Sherlock Holmes. It won't work."

She watched Sherlock frown at her, letting him squirm a little for both leaving her at Brixton on her own and texting her misinformation that made her run – _well, she was driven. Happy now?_ - across London to get back to 221B.

Sherlock was very surprised that she wasn't taken in by his act. It had always worked with Molly. Normally all he had to do was comment on her appearance and compliment her and she'd obey his beck and call.

And there was something else... another feeling working to not be ignored... pride. He was proud of his little flatmate. And of himself that he'd known to pick her to be his flatmate. He'd known that she was a woman of substance. Well, that was what he would assure anyone who asked that is.

He fully expected her to go to the desk like any soldier would haven been given orders, but instead she went to the window and peered out. Frowning, Sherlock crept up behind her so that he eventually got so close he could smell her Jasmine scent again and could feel the heat radiating from her back to his chest.

"What's wrong?"

His arms went up to stifle her flying fists, and caught them before they did harm and let her slowly turn to face him so that he could see her full, tempting mouth panting in shock from being startled at his proximity to her. Slowly, her pretty lips formed her words. "I met an enemy of yours. Well, he said he was your arch-enemy, but I thought that he might've been giving himself more credit than he deserved."

John watched the conflict in his face. Disbelief that turned into worry that turned into suspicion, which sculpted his face to narrow his eyes suspiciously as he asked "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" John nodded her head and watched earnestly at Sherlock. She furrowed her brows when he asked "Did you take it?" The indignation in John's voice told Sherlock that she took great offense to the thought that she would have as she told him that she didn't. It made parts of him tingle blissfully. John wouldn't sell him out. Not for even money like Mycroft could offer her. But, thinking about it practically, Sherlock stifled his joy and said huffily "Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Despite herself, John smiled and gave a little chuckle at Sherlock as she walked over to put in the number from the desk. Sherlock's heart gave a little leap at the sound of John's chuckle, it meant that she was slightly less angry with him. He relaxed fully when she joked with him "Well, the next time I meet one of your enemies, I'll try harder to turn a profit." Turning to him she asked who the man was, to which Sherlock stated "The most dangerous man you've ever met and not our problem right now." John, unable to contain herself, snorted her amusement as she said "Funny, the Boogeyman didn't seem that scary."

Having typed in the number, she asked for the message. When Sherlock had told her and she'd typed it in, she stopped as she thought. Jennifer Wilson was the lady in pink. The victim. Why was she texting her mobile? How'd Sherlock even get a luggage label with her mobile number on it?

Saying to Sherlock that she'd sent it, she turned with her phone still in her free hand to see Sherlock sitting in one of the arms chairs flipping open a bright pink suitcase approximately the same size that Sherlock had specified to her and Lestrade that it'd be. In it was a few items of clothing and underwear- all in varying shades of pink- a washbag, and a paperback novel called 'Come to bed eyes'. John understood the washbag, hell even the raunchy novel, but... pink? _Really?_ John hadn't ever been a fan of pink, she'd hated the Barbie doll image that came with it, so had just stuck to pastel colours and nudes. Much simpler.

"Care to explain to me how you found Jennifer Wilson's case?"

Sherlock's brows raised and his eyes snapped to look at her. John almost crumbled under the deep, searching gaze he sent her, but then she garnered her courage and reminded herself that she was a Watson. So she stared right back and saw the surprise in Sherlock's face, heard it in his voice as he said "You don't think I'm the murderer?"

It was John's turn to frown and bite her lip as she wondered if he had to defend himself against everyone believing that he was the murderer. "No, why should I? Do people normally think you're the murderer?" John watched the smirk appear on his face as he leaped to rearrange himself so that his legs were crossed as he perched on the chair, and smirked naughtily as he told her "Now and then, yes."

John sat herself down on the chair opposite him, with a great, heavy drop that made the chair creak its protest. She rested her cane against the chair, leant forward and put her hand on Sherlock's knee and shook it as she said excitedly "Now, come on. Spill! How'd you find it?"

"By looking."

Giggling slightly at him, John gave him a teasing look and joked "No! I never would've guessed!" She smacked her hands on her cheeks and gasped theatrically. She then, once, making him laugh once, Sherlock found his heart pounding as he laughed along with her after she'd cupped her hand to make it look like she was conspiring with his Skull and said to it in a loud stage whisper "I would have though." She then winked very visibly at it, as if she'd told him a great secret before she turned back to him and they both burst out laughing – well, she burst out laughing her light, musical laugh while he merely gave a little smile.

Once Sherlock regained control of himself, he locked up. His mind failed to comprehend how this woman could make him smile so easily, as if he'd been doing it his whole life, like he'd known her his whole life instead of having only just met her the other day. Feeling her eyes on him, Sherlock turned his head so that her questioning gaze was staring straight into his, the aching curiosity blatant to him. Sherlock felt that pull to her that he felt earlier when she first saw the flat, that insatiable addiction to her smiles and her realisation face made him feel stupid, and scared him. The only thing he should be addicted to is non animate objects – drugs and tobacco. Not living beings. Not a woman. Not John, his flatmate.

He cleared his throat before he told her with more confidence than he felt "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So, obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without it being observed. It took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"And because the case had to be pink, it was simple as."

Sherlock looked to her, from the tone of her voice it sounded like she knew, had figured out that it would be pink. Could she have...? No! Of course she couldn't have. To turn his attention away from this thought process, he extended his index fingers to point to the case and asked "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

John scrunched her brow and bit her lip in contemplation, her nose scrunching up cutely once more as her eyes flicked around the contents of Jennifer Wilson's case. Sherlock found his eyes riveted by the view of a woman using her brain. Surprisingly, he found it attractive. After what looked like careful deliberation, she straightened, her eyes shooting to him and a small smile pulling at her lips as she said "She doesn't have a phone or an organiser in here. And a woman like this would've had one. But there wasn't one on the body, there wasn't one at the crime scene and now it isn't in her case."

Sherlock felt a surge of joy and pride at her successful deduction. "Yes! Well done, John! We know she had one. You just texted it." He frowned when John's face seemed to lose its radiance, getting paler as the seconds grew; her lips flew open with a gasp and her eyes widened with a kind of shock and horror as she squeaked "I texted a murderer!" Her hands flew to cover her mouth, her chest starting to heave as her shock was causing her to start hyperventilating.

Sherlock shot over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking deep into her beautiful golden amber eyes as he said as calmly as he knew how "John, you need to calm down. Breath, John. In and out, John. Slowly in and slowly out. Take deep breaths." John followed his orders with eyes still wide and her pillowed lips still opened in horror, but she was getting calmer. And that was a result for him.

Looking into his eyes, John, breathless from her hyperventilation, told him "Oh god. I think I'm going to be sick." Sherlock didn't retreat, though his regard for his clothes did make him wary for a milli-second. Instead he checked her temperature, placing the back of his hand on her forehead, moving her fringe so that the hair fell over his hand to trickle like a waterfall across his palm. She wasn't particularly hot, so it couldn't be much more than shock.

Slowly, he heard John's breathing become heavy and deep, just as he'd told her to do. Sherlock got ensnared by a magnetic pull that frightened him as he stared into John's honey orbs, and John didn't seem to notice the effect her trust in him was like.

When had a woman ever trusted him as John seemed to? When had anyone trusted him so much? Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that it was never. Sherlock had never trusted anyone else, choosing the facts of his chemistry set and his own eyes rather than someone who'd only let you down. He supposed people had known that, so hadn't ever tried to trust or rely on him.

Still staring into each other's eyes, he moved his hand away from her forehead, down her face to stroke her cheek, running his fingertips down the apple contours until he reached her long jaw, which he followed until he got to her chin. Then his hand cupped her chin and held it so that she would keep staring at him with those amber jewels of hers.

John's mobile rung loudly with AC DC, vibrating on the chair and calling an end to their... should Sherlock call it a _moment_? Dread suddenly shot through his skin, his hand whipped away from holding John's chin as if it burned him. Sherlock felt like a fool at wanting the moment to continue. But her phone was ringing, and that meant the murderer was calling her. Quickly checking the caller ID, John read:

_(withheld)  
calling_

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receive a text that can only be form her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murderer..." Sherlock paused dramatically and flipped the lid of the case as he said "...would panic."

John watched as Sherlock grabbed his trench coat and shrugged it on, wrapped his scarf around the turned up collar, before pulling on his gloves. John had to watch the fluid way that Sherlock putt on these garments, with such grace and elegance, but still being attractively manly. "Come on, John. We're going out." Her phone stopped ringing, and her excuse to avoid Sherlock's gaze had left her without any more.

Looking up to Sherlock's determined and set face, she said "Have you informed the police?" Sherlock looked at her with a look that burgeoned on disdain as he said "Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk with the police."

"So why are you talking to _me_?"

In all honesty, Sherlock wasn't sure of the answer to that himself. He shouldn't be drawn to her, shouldn't be drawn to anyone. But he saw in her a comrade in arms, fighting the same battle as he was. John looked at Sherlock hopefully, whether that was hopeful that she'd be allowed to stay at home, or hopeful that he wanted her to stay around him Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Problem?"

Sherlock sincerely hoped there wasn't. Then he called himself various colourful names for being so moronic and sounding like a lovesick character in one of Mrs Hudson's soaps. She looked at him with the same curiosity from before, but there was a guarded disposition there too, as if ready to flee if he suddenly lunged at her.

"Yeah, Sgt Donovan."

Sherlock resisted the urge to scoff at the name. And then anger flared up within him. What had Donovan said to John to suddenly putt her off? Exasperation in his voice, John looked away when he asked her what was wrong. "Sh- She said... that you get off on this. You enjoy it."

Sherlock knew the Sgt's game, and wasn't going to just roll over and give up this risky opportunity. "And I said 'dangerous' and told you 'deadly', yet you opened that chest and you're still here." Sherlock walked out of the room, his fingers crossed in the safe cover of his trench coat, hoping she'd take the bait and follow him. He did begin to worry as the seconds ticked on, but then he heard the excited "Damn it, Sherlock!" and her footsteps on the stairs as she rushed as fast as she could to catch up with him he smiled to himself. Eyes smiling and his mouth twisted upwards in a friendly smirk, he stepped aside to allow her to step through the doorway and absorbed her radiant smile.

* * *

Hello fellow fan-fic readers, I'm so sorry for not updating until now. I won't bore you with details. New school. I'm going to give you up to the Blind Banker at least, that I can promise you.

Thank you for your reviews, I really like to hear your thoughts on what I can do to improve since I'm going to put the story under reconstruction for character related problems that have been brought to my attention. Please re-read it when I do, I'm gonna do it after posting the end of the 'Study in Hot Pink', cause I'm going to change somethings that might change future events or commments in the story that will confuse you unless you do. So please just amuse me and re-read it?

Yours faithfully,

Phoenix.


End file.
